Healing Hands
by Coin Operated Pencil
Summary: The war's over and Harry's more than ready for a break. Ginny and Ron want him to be an Auror and Hermione just wishes he had the motivation to pursue any career at all. Everyone gets thrown for a loop, however, when Snape is suddenly found months after the final battle, decidedly not dead and only eight years old. Has Harry found his purpose after all? De-aged!Snape Guardian!Harry
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: The war's over and Harry's more than ready for a break. Unfortunately, his friends don't seem to agree with that plan. Ginny and Ron want him to be an Auror and Hermione just wishes he had the motivation to pursue any career at all. Everyone gets thrown for a loop, however, when Snape is suddenly found months after the final battle, decidedly not dead at all and now only eight years old. Has Harry found his purpose after all? Will the quiet, untrusting Severus finally learn that some adults _can_ be trusted before it's too late?

**Warning** for definite spoilers. Also, I'm going with a mixture of movie and book versions of events, since I loved them both.

**Disclaimer** for the entirety of the story: I own nothing except for a healthy dose of wishful thinking that Snape had gotten a better ending.

Healing Hands

1: Late Night Strolls down Memory Lane

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The typical seventeen year old didn't spend his free time hiding out in tents on the run for a year, hunting down pieces of evil soul embedded in ancient trinkets. Most seventeen year olds enjoyed Hogwarts for their final year, went out on Hogsmeade dates, worried about passing their Newts, and in general did not fear for the lives of friends every day. Most teenagers didn't cringe every time a newspaper landed in front of them or feel too squeamish to read the headlines right away. How many more had died today? How many more deaths to weigh on his conscience? No, most seventeen years olds didn't ask themselves those sorts of questions. Harry Potter knew early into his life that he wasn't typical, the Harry Hunting and countless insults hissed under his relatives' breaths made sure of that, but _come on_. Enough was enough already. Voldemort was dead and gone, no more than a dreaded ghost story to haunt the lucky ones who survived. He'd battled it for how many years straight? Evil teachers, trolls, dragons, you-name-it-he's-probably-been-threatened-by-it?

Honestly, he's just flat out tired of near death experiences.

He's tired of the whispered stares, and the gossip, and the countless people clamoring for his attention or autograph or both. He's tired of everyone telling him to move on, to stop moping around like Moaning Myrtle and start celebrating with the rest of the wizarding world. Can't anyone see that he's not as untouchable as the public thinks? He's not some infallible super human. He's... just Harry, damn it. And even though he's still only seventeen, he feels more ancient than Professor Dumbledore must have felt in his final days. The trauma of the war is starting to set in, and he can't shake all these memories, all these faces of casualties, of every friend and every stranger lost. Heck, at night he still hears Voldemort's scratchy low voice hissing to _kill the spare_, still sees that unconcerned little rat flicking his wand so casually in Cedric's direction. The familiar flash of green light jerks him awake more often than he can admit. He still sees his godfather's fall, can still see the man's eyes as they lock onto his own once more and then disappear into the mist of the Veil. He still feels Dobby shaking in his arms, choked high voice admiring Harry even while the faithful elf's life slips away, wide eyes going from so, so happy to vacant as he releases his last breath. But even more persistent are the ones where that giant snake strikes with deadly force, fangs piercing Snape's neck. And the blood on Harry's hands as he tries to save him, the despair etched into the very foundation of the man as he allowed those precious tears to escape. Merlin, Snape didn't deserve that death. Worse still, though, is how people still spit at the mention of his name. Fred, Cedric, Sirius, Remus, Tonks... everyone who'd given their lives to protect the world from Voldemort was honored for their sacrifice. Everyone except Snape, who no one believed was on their side even after all the fuss Harry's tried to kick up at the Ministry. He'd testified on the surly potions master's behalf at the trials, fought harder at it than he did at every other hearing combined, and it hurt like a physical blow that he'd failed to clear the man's name. Snape gave up his reputation, his friendships, his very freedom, for decades to atone for his mistakes. He'd paid already. He'd _died_ already.

It was perhaps the only cause for which Harry would keep fighting.

If it were the last thing he ever did, Harry vowed to clear the man's name.

But for right now? It's late at night in the quiet of Grimmauld Place, and after waking up from a nightmare so vivid he can still smell the stale stench of death and still hear Voldemort's maniacal hissing, Harry's almost ready to return to sleep. Trying to get his mind off of all this rubbish, he'd decided to go through the stacks of mail gathering dust in the living room and had lit a fire to burn the junk. But really, none of this shite could keep his focus away from all the bad that lurked in the dark places in his mind. How does everyone expect him to move forward so soon, so easily? Toward what, exactly? He'd been groomed to kill Voldemort from the very beginning, and that's done. So what's left? He's already fulfilled his purpose. Out of everyone to die that miserable night, Harry can't shake feeling like he should have been among them. Fred should have survived for George and to help bring laughter back to the war torn wizarding world. It wasn't easy finding reasons to laugh nowadays, and George wasn't the same prankster without his other half around. And oh, Remus and Tonks... they should have survived to raise their son, poor, poor Teddy, who'd never know his parents. Teddy lives with Andromeda nowadays. It hadn't been an easy decision. He'd have fought tooth and nail to keep his godson with him permanently were it not for the fact that Andromeda had lost her entire family to the war. She needed Teddy almost as much as Teddy needed her, and Harry got to see him all the time. He wouldn't ever suffer through the same lonely childhood that Harry had.

_I promise, Remus._

Snape should have gotten the chance to enjoy the peace that his entire life effort brought into being. He shouldn't have suffered the indignity of such a brutal death, so close to the end of the war with no reassurances that they'd even win after he died. Harry hoped that the man found peace, hoped he knew that he'd played a major role in Voldemort's defeat. Maybe that's why Harry kept fighting to clear his name. He wanted, somewhere deep down, for Snape to know peace. Nobody deserved to live a lonely, abusive childhood, get bullied growing up, and then fight as a spy for twenty odd years knowing only enemies from all sides. It wasn't _right_.

Harry takes a deep breath then, his magic surging to the surface.

It's dangerous to think so much.

Instead, he wills himself to calm down and returns to the pile of mail stacked on his lap. Staring at the parchment clenched in a loose fist, at words meant to comfort but only tie the noose even tighter around his neck, Harry can't bring himself to celebrate the latest attempt to convince him to join the Aurors. The offer of a 'highly valued and respected position in the Ministry' doesn't appeal to him the way that it probably would to most, and despite his past interest in joining the cause that fights dark wizards every day, Harry finds himself with a newfound longing toward a quieter, less eventful future. Something seriously evil must have possessed him back in the day, for him to think for even one minute that he wanted to live fighting dark wizards for the rest of his life.

He hadn't even wanted to do it when he was doing it.

With a final shake of the head, Harry throws the parchment into the fireplace and feels only satisfied at the flame's sudden crackles as it engulfs and eradicates a future he can't bring any part of himself to want any longer. There's bound to be backlash. Ginny's been trying to get Harry to join the Aurors pretty much since the morning after the final battle, and her reaction when she realizes that it's never going to happen ranks just below the angry disappointment Ron's surely going to express. Hermione probably won't care as much, but he's still not looking forward to her enthusiastic and exhausting sales pitch for all the other career paths he can pursue. She won't understand the fact that he's too tired to pursue a career so soon after everything that happened. With the money Sirius and his parents left behind and his dreary house at Grimmauld Place, Harry can afford to take a year off. Maybe even a few years. Maybe he can get to know himself, take a breath for once and just focus on being Harry. Voldemort consumed his entire childhood from start to finish, but he's not around anymore to consume anything else. Time is officially Harry's now, despite what the public might think and despite what his friends might think, and damned if he's not ready to enjoy it while it's here. Let the adults clean up in the aftermath of the war. Harry played his part, fulfilled his role. He's still just a teenager.

He's earned a break.

He's earned _ten_ breaks. And an extended vacation.

So then why does it feel like he's trying to convince himself?

As the last of the letter burns to ashes in the fireplace, Harry sighs, feeling ten times his age and way too tired to avoid the nightmares anymore. But when he returns to bed and slides under the thick blankets, his mind still feels too busy, and he lies there staring up at the ceiling for a long time after. Dreamless sleep can only be taken so many nights straight before his body needs the break. The thought of the potion reminds him, again, of the potions master the world refuses to exonerate, and it's a physical ache in his chest to think of what everyone lost. Sleep won't come easily tonight.

Grunting, he rolls onto his side. Then again, when does it ever?


	2. Six Months to the Day

Healing Hands

2: Six Months to the Day

_November 2, 1998_

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Carefully placing what he hopes turns out to be the last dark artifact in Grimmauld Place into the box, Harry sits back on his haunches and tries not to breathe in too much dust. Anyone with any good sense at all can tell that no amount of hoping can make this trinket the last dangerous item in the house, because, well, _look_ at the place. It's like it's been charmed to repel sunlight even if the windows are open. He even had a curse breaker check the house over, to no avail. It's been a slow arduous process figuring out what's dangerous and what's not, but Teddy's getting mobile and Harry can't feel good about letting him play two feet away from books that try to eat you and glass figurines that spit obscenities when you pass by them. Why anyone in their right mind would decorate their house with trinkets that spew insults is beyond Harry. Sirius' childhood is always called into question these days, and it's hard to think about how anyone could grow up living here. He's nearly an adult now and can simply banish anything that calls him a – what is the latest? – a four-eyed, poorly groomed disgusting hobbit half-blood. Yeah, definitely not child friendly. It's a dark day in Grimmauld Place (much like every single other calendar day) when even the door handles hiss out blood prejudice.

"Foul, evil little boy! Dirtying our ancestral home!"

A quick glance reveals that it's a mirror this time, hanging on the wall above an old dresser that he hasn't gone through yet. Harry rolls his eyes, pushing himself to a stand and walking toward the mirror, hoping to make quick work of shutting it up and stuffing it into the box with all the other mean-spirited inanimate objects. Every step he takes toward the thing just makes it even angrier, and by the time he's close enough to flick his wand at it, it's screaming swears and slurs against his parents.

It gives him much satisfaction to mutter the counter curse.

"Dirty blood! Mudblood bitch for a mother-"

Smiling at the sudden silence, Harry removes the mirror without looking at himself and places it on top of everything else, careful so as not to jostle the items that he hasn't been able to de-curse by himself. He's been reading so many books about how to break curses that he could probably sit the NEWTS for it. Not that he ever planned to sit those, and not that he'd ever tell a joke like that around Hermione. She'd stopped trying to get Ron and he to take those tests a few months back; he'd be ten times the fool half these trinkets have called him to voluntarily bring that topic back to light. He's still chuckling to himself over the mental images when a telltale _whoosh_ and sudden thumps from downstairs alert him of a visitor. His body tenses, hands clenching around the edges of the box, fingers of his wand hand twitching, before his brain can catch up with the fact that unexpected visitors aren't cause for concern anymore, especially not in Grimmauld Place where only a handful of people have access to the floo, not to mention the vast Fidelius protections. Still, he doesn't relax until he hears Ginny's unmistakable bellow from below, wondering where Harry is and reminding him very strongly of Mrs. Weasley. Abandoning his mission to clear out the dark objects on the second floor for the moment, Harry hurries downstairs before Ginny decides to come searching for him. To his surprise, Ginny's not the only redhead standing in his living room, and he grins when he hears Ron grumbling about all the toys littering the ground and how can anyone land safely in a landmine like this? He's also hopping on one foot when Harry enters the room, groaning, and it's obvious that his toe must have had an unfortunate meeting with one of Teddy's toy cars. Ginny's laughing at him beside the fireplace, looking poised in comparison to her brother.

Ron plops onto the nearest chair and perks up when he spots Harry in the doorway. "Oi! What tiny baby plays with all this shite? Can he even lift his head up yet?"

"He's going on seven months old, Ron." Ginny levels him with an irritated stare.

Ron just looks confused. "Yeah, so?"

The expression on both siblings' faces startles a laugh out of Harry, who greets Ginny with a hug and Ron with a fond glance before sitting on the couch. Moving a few toys out of the way, he pats the seat beside him for Ginny to join, and they spend the next several minutes explaining to Ron how seven months is a long time in baby age. Teddy's not only able to lift his head on his own, but he's crawling and getting to the point where he can lift himself into a shaky stand if he has a solid surface like a coffee table to hold onto. He's had to use a cushioning charm on all the corners and hard surfaces on the first floor of the house just to keep Teddy from breaking something (mostly himself). He's already grown two bottom teeth, and a few days ago Harry thought he saw one of the top front teeth poking through the gums, a tiny sliver of white. He'd been fussy that day, too. It seems like everyday that passes is a new milestone reached. Harry enjoys telling Ron all about it, catching up with his best friend who's been so busy training to become an Auror that he hasn't seen Teddy in months. When was the last time Harry'd even spoken with Ron? The fact that the occasion doesn't come immediately to mind is telling in and of itself. In fact, he hasn't heard much from Hermione lately either, who's been studying like mad for her NEWTS. Harry mostly goes it alone these days, except for Teddy and Ginny, of course. He's stopped by and visited George some too. It's comforting to be around someone else who hasn't moved on completely yet, who still feels that aching loss that can't dissipate after only six months.

_Six months to the day, actually._

Yeah, see, _this_ is why he's been keeping busy all day.

The reminder is sombering, and he lets Ginny and Ron's voices wash over him, let them do most of the talking. Ginny's been around Grimmauld Place more often than anyone and has stories of her own to tell about Teddy. Harry tries to relax into her latest recounting, tries to feel the peace that seeps through her story, tries not to lose himself to memories right now when Ron's finally found some spare time to catch up. Ginny's voice is laughing while she speaks. She'd levitated a chair out of the way to clean under it a few weeks back and Teddy had gotten such a kick out of it that he'd screamed if she so much as attempted to set the chair down. As soon as she levitated the chair again, his face would light right back up and he'd start squealing, chubby cheeks dimpled and grin so wide his bottom teeth showed through. Harry'd been cooking dinner in the meantime, and when he'd come to get them and seen her lifting the chair up and down in the air, expression panicked and overwhelmed, he'd laughed himself silly. Teddy's hard to resist when he finds something that makes him giggle like that. For such a tiny person, he sure does have some lungs on him.

"You alright Harry?" Ginny asks then.

He opens his eyes, unaware that he'd even closed them. Ron and Ginny are both silent now and staring at him, Ginny with that all-too familiar tilt of her head, like she can't quite figure him out yet. Shaking his head, he insists that he's fine, and he is now. It's not even a lie, not with such a great memory at the forefront of his mind, blocking out everything else. Thinking about Teddy always cheers him up, like whispering a soft _lumos_ and having a light blot out the surrounding darkness. Hoping to keep the topic light, Harry decides to tell his own story, starting in on one involving Teddy and the ever dreaded bath time, when Ron interrupts midway through with a guilty glance toward his sister, which they share, and then he says, "Harry, mate, much as I like hearing about your godson, Gin and I wanted to, well, talk about something else. Maybe. It's pretty important."

He sounds awkward and hesitant, but something important can never be good, can it? His back stiffening at their ensuing silence, his hand twitching for his wand, Harry waits only a second for them to keep talking and when they don't, he demands, "What's wrong? Is Hermione –"

Ron looks even guiltier. "No, no! Everyone's good."

"Well, not everyone," Ginny's voice is gentle as she adds.

Harry looks between them, back and forth. Why won't they just say it? His mind keeps conjuring images of the remaining death eaters, the ones on the run, still loose and posing a threat. All sorts of people could have been attacked by them. If not Hermione then Luna or Neville maybe, they both had made enemies during the final battle that hadn't been caught yet. Never one to handle a nasty surprise well, especially now on the six month anniversary of the end of the war, mere days after a gloomy Halloween, Harry swallows hard and asks, "Then who?"

"You, Harry." Ginny lays a hand on his arm.

He stares at her, unblinking. Harry hasn't been attacked. Not lately, anyway.

Ron nods into the silence. "Yeah, mate, we've been worried."

"What about me?" It's a flat question, no inflection or curiosity, because Merlin, these two just about gave him a heart attack over _nothing_. He gets it now, the glances they'd been shooting each other this whole time over Harry's head, the sudden visit, Ron's appearance here. It makes sense now. Ron's been too busy starting his career for just a random pop in, and literally every time they've spoken in the past six months, it's always ended up in the same place. _Why don't you come out with me, Harry? We're training today; Kingsley wants you there_. No amount of saying straight up that he's never planning to be an Auror has dissuaded Ron, and it's obvious that no amount of anything ever will. There's an underlining thread of disappointment in Ron's voice this go around, like he's just so let down that his best friend won't join him in something that's so important to the rebuilding of the wizarding world. Harry sits and listens as the two explain their worries, about how he hardly ever leaves this grim old house and how only being around Teddy can't be good for his mental health. He doesn't even twitch when Ginny asks if Harry has any idea what everyone's been saying about him, how he's become a hermit, how it hurts her every time someone asks if Harry's even still _alive_. She's calm and gentle even when she admits that it's not been good for her professional reputation, Harry being so far removed from the public eye as he's been lately. What does that even mean, exactly?

"What does that even mean?" he finally snaps.

Ginny squeezes his arm, no doubt trying to comfort, but he rips his arm from her grip and scoots across the couch. They're too close, suddenly way too close, and the bubbling panic pooling in his gut makes him feel like running to the second floor. It's like he's in the cupboard under the stairs all over again, locked into a dark corner with no light and only spiders for company. Oh, Merlin.

Ginny's talking again. "Harry, you've got to get back into the world. I'm hoping to sign a contract with the Holyhead Harpies soon. Do you even realize what that would mean for me? I've not even finished my sixth year, and already they're showing interest. With you there, I don't see how they'd be able to say no. And have you read all the articles about you? They're calling you a deserter, Harry. A selfish attention seeker who's left when the going gets tough. They're saying you've deserted the wizarding world in its darkest hour. How can you keep letting them say these things?"

Astounded, Harry looks to Ron for some sort of support.

He doesn't get it. "Harry, you're my best mate, and we love you. But you holding yourself up here isn't helping anyone. The world still needs you. Hermione and I need you. We'd have so much fun training together, just wait, and –"

"What is this, an intervention?"

Ron and Ginny don't have the chance to respond, because Harry's well and truly pissed off by this point, and his magic shakes the foundation of the house, makes the lights flick and the fireplace roar to life, thick orange flames erupting out of ash. Ginny flinches back onto the opposite side of the couch at the energy cracking in the air around him, hurt visible on her face before Harry decides not to care about it. Ron tries to tell him to calm down, anger in his own voice, and Harry has had enough of this nonsense. He's angry, sure, but what's the point? His magic quiets as he does, draining from the room in seconds. Not because he's listening to his friend, oh no, but because it's all so very tiring. Quietly, unable to keep the hurt from his tone despite his best efforts, Harry asks them, "Do you agree with all that rubbish? That I'm this selfish attention seeker out to desert the world?"

Ron winces, but Ginny's persistent. "Harry, you _have_ deserted the world."

"I see." Harry doesn't have to explain anything to them. They both lost a brother, so why don't they get it? It's only been six months. Merlin, did they have to pull this shite today of all days, when so much of the world lost so much of itself mere months in the past? Why is everyone so capable of moving forward while he's stuck at a stand still, waiting for everything to feel less hard? Honestly, he can't care less about what the public thinks. He hasn't read a headline from the Prophet in months. But when people who matter say these things, when people who know him can think these things, then what does that say? What does it say about him, that his best friends in the world would rather he get back into the limelight he's always hated just to make their own futures better? He'd do anything for Ron and Ginny, for Hermione and Neville and Luna. But use his fame to get them where they want to be in life? He wishes they'd take it for themselves if they want it so badly. Let Ron be famous. He'd accomplish more with it than Harry ever will.

"Look," he says at last, tired. "I'm not going to help you get on the Holyhead Harpies, Gin."

She opens her mouth, eyes flashing, but he's not done yet. "I appreciate you coming over here all the time and keeping Teddy and I company, but if you've only been doing it so I'll help you in your rise to fame and fortune, then I'll change the wards and you can just stay out of our life. It's so exhausting just to get out of bed every morning. If Teddy weren't here, I honestly don't know that I'd bother with it."

From anger to outrage to horror in an instant, Ginny clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, while Ron exclaims a loud and appalled, "_Harry_!"

But he's determined now and won't stop. "You don't need my fame to get on the team, Ginny, and if you really can't make it on your own merits, then what's the point? You'll enjoy it more after you've earned that spot. As for what the world thinks... well, screw them, really. No one that matters would believe all that rubbish. I'm tired, guys. Voldemort's dead and it's not even been long enough for Hogwarts to open up fulltime again. Everyone's still mourning, I'm still mourning, and if you can't see that or can't handle it, then please just bugger off, because I'm not going to pretend everything's fine when it's not. I feel like I've done my share of fighting, and it's time to let other people handle things. Why does it always have to be me? Neville's on that American cruise and I don't hear people telling him that he's abandoned the world. Why can't I relax like everyone else for once and just live my life? Everyone still expects me to lay down my life for the world, to jump whenever there's someone else to save or something else needed by the Ministry. Can't you see that it's... it's all rubbish?"

_Unfair_, the word rang inside his mind, wanting to come out.

Besides the mutual flinch when Harry said the name Voldemort, both Weasleys sit stock still, listening with varying expressions of guilt and anger etched onto their faces. Ron's face is almost as red as his hair, freckles standing out in stark contrast. But the disappointment that he sees is the worst part, strikes at the heart of who he's always been, just this disappointing little boy in constant struggles to be good enough, always failing, never living up to expectations. Harry watches Ron stand, watches him mutter to Ginny that this was a stupid idea and that Harry is never going to see reason. This is the first time he's seen Ron in months, and he's walking toward the fireplace, hand reaching for the floo powder. Harry can say something, stop him before he whirls away in a cloud of dust, hold onto the thin thread that's been keeping their friendship together lately, but he sits there instead. He's got nothing left to say. Ginny stays behind, biting her lip and waiting until Ron storms away. She shoots Harry a sad look from where she's standing close to the floo escape, as if begging him to reconsider or giving him another opportunity to stop her from leaving. He shakes his head, mop of disheveled hair flopping down into his eyes, hiding the scar that won't stop existing.

Ginny frowns, a handful of powder as she steps into the fireplace.

"I'm so disappointed in you, Harry."

Harry waits until she goes to firecall Andromeda. She's relieved when Harry asks to spend the rest of the day with Teddy, frayed old voice stressed as she rambles on about all the trouble he's caused in the past hour alone. "Teething something fierce, the poor dear," the old woman frets from her end of the fire. She's always so sensitive about seeing Teddy in pain or not being able to stop him from crying. He remembers just one month after the final battle, Teddy had gotten sick with a cold and wouldn't settle down or stop screaming. Andromeda had called him over crying herself, beside herself in a full blown panic. Harry understood. She'd lost everyone at around the same time, one right after another, and it'd left its scars. Even the slightest hint that she might lose Teddy too sends her into hysterics.

As soon as he and Teddy step foot out of the floo, Teddy's screams pierce the air, tiny face a picture of pure misery as fat tears fall onto his cheeks. Harry coos at him, shushing him with soft words and rocking him, wondering absently how the Dursleys handled it when he cried as a baby. It's hard to picture Aunt Petunia rocking him to sleep or soothing any aches. Hopefully he'd grown all his teeth by the time his parents died, but somehow he doubts it. Shaking the thoughts from his head, Harry moves to the kitchen and retrieves a teething ring, charmed to remain cold and squishy enough to feel good on the gums. He rubs it against Teddy's lips, urging, and the baby screams around the ring in his mouth for a full thirty seconds before he seems to grasp the concept and quiets, sucking on the ring with all his might, face scrunched in concentration. Harry smiles at the sight, rocking still even as he asks him quite seriously if the cold feels any better. Teddy mumbles around the ring, nonsense sounds that mean nothing, but Harry's had a long day and his foggy mind is just tired enough to take his gurgles as a yes. His godson doesn't look a bit tired even after the lengthy fit and the day Andromeda described to him, but it's still early evening yet. Settling onto the couch with Teddy in his arms, he makes funny faces at the baby, sticking out his tongue and blowing raspberries until a hesitant little smile finds its way onto Teddy's face. He's still sucking happily at the ring, cheeks dimpling around it, eyes calm as they gaze up at Harry.

Harry returns the smile with one of his own. "You're awesome," he tells the baby.

Teddy gurgles back, gums gnawing away, little teeth pushing up. He looks a lot like Remus did, his tiny face like a mirror image of the man Harry remembers, soft tawny hair and wide amber eyes. Arms wiggling, Teddy's fist clamps around one of Harry's fingers and refuses to let go, and Harry shakes his finger a bit to coax another smile from him. It works, of course. Once he gets distracted away from the pain, it's easy to make him smile; everything from floating toys to tickling his tummy does the trick. And by far Harry's favorite method is the mirror trick, where he floats a mirror in front of Teddy and asks him, "Where's the baby?" Teddy loves looking at himself in the mirror, gurgling and grinning so hard that the ring slips from his mouth when he catches sight of his own face. Harry quickly replaces the ring before he has the chance to cry over its loss, asking another time where the baby is to provide a distraction. Teddy waves his arms and makes funny faces, nose scrunching and un-scrunching as he gets himself so excited that he starts full body wriggling in Harry's arms, reaching out to touch the mirror.

"There's the baby!" Harry coos, praising him for finding himself in the mirror.

It's hard to imagine himself right now, someone who can actually make someone as innocent and as precious as Teddy smile so brightly, but even harder still would be to imagine himself without Teddy in his life. Remus and Tonks will never know how much he appreciates being given the honorary godfather title to this little stinker. It's like everything else melts away when he's here making these funny faces. It's as if the most important thing in the world becomes persuading little Teddy to smile. Is it weird that each smile Harry manages makes him feel prouder than the moment Voldemort fell? Prouder than anything he's ever done?

That's probably weird.

He can't bring himself to care.

Levitating the mirror back to the wall, Harry settles little Teddy onto the couch beside him, ring still firmly situated into his mouth, and then starts up a game of peek-a-boo. Teddy beams up at him every time he moves his hands from his eyes, gurgling and content and smiling wider each time Harry repeats the action. He'll never grow tired of this. Teddy's going to have a childhood without fear or threats or trauma, without dark cupboards and exhausting chores and whacks across the head. And when he gets older, Harry and Andromeda are going to tell him every last detail about his parents, the truth of how they died, and the bravery that helped save the world. Teddy won't ever feel the sting of betrayal that Harry did when he found out how much Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had lied about his parents. He'll grow up knowing his parents as the strong, capable people they were, and he'll grow up knowing how much they will always love him.

He's still playing peek-a-boo with Teddy on the couch when Hermione's head pokes out of the fireplace, voice urgent and hurried. It's the first time he's spoken with her in a few weeks, but she skips all formalities and gasps out a breathless, "Harry! You've got to come to Hogwarts; there's no time. Something's happened and you're the only person I can think of who might be able to protect him –"

"Mione, who? What's happened?" Grabbing Teddy and holding him to his chest, rocking him again when he seems to sense the anxiety in the air and starts fussing, lip trembling to signal the beginnings of a tantrum, Harry rushes to the fire, heart pounding and magic singing in his veins. Something's happened, and Hermione's stricken face stares up at him, her determined voice urging him once more to come immediately to Hogwarts. She doesn't appear injured but other people frequent Hogwarts, other people who are helping to rebuild it and organize for the next year when they plan to open again. Didn't she mention some tutoring classes available in the interim? There could be kids there, hurt, attacked. When she only repeats that he needs to get there immediately, voice shaky and head disappearing from the flames for a moment, Harry demands with a tone so fierce that Teddy whimpers and burrows his head into Harry's chest, sucking harder on his teething ring, "Tell me what's happened."

Hermione's head leaves again, only to reappear moments later. "Harry, Severus Snape's been found alive!"

_Oh Merlin_.

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I'm not usually as quick a writer, but I was so shocked by the amount of people who've reviewed or favorited or followed – or heck, even _viewed_ – that an entire new chapter was inspired right out of me in the span of a day. I honestly didn't expect anyone to read this. As a thanks, I figured there was no reason not to go ahead and post this. So, truly, thank you all so much.


	3. Trauma

**Warnings** for talk of child abuse and a few minor deviations from canon.

Healing Hands

3: Trauma

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Hermione doesn't stick around after that, saying only that she needs to get back in there before something happens and that Harry needs to meet them in the hospital wing as quickly as possible because Aurors have already been called and Snape's in no condition to go to prison. He doesn't ask anymore questions, doesn't even pause to pick up his wand that'd fallen onto the couch. He simply snaps out his hand, waiting the mere heartbeat it takes for the comforting presence of the thing to hit his open palm. Teddy obviously feels the tension because he starts crying around his teething ring, eyes wide and frightened, and Harry can't bear that he's the cause of such a look and knows that he can't take the baby with him to Hogwarts. Snape must be injured if they're meeting in the hospital wing, and he'll need every focus aimed at keeping the war hero from a wholly undeserved stint into custody. So he takes Teddy back to Andromeda, explaining only that something urgent has come up but that he'd come back as soon as he could to check on them. Andromeda wastes no time taking Teddy from him, bouncing him on her hip to try and quell his crying and holding the teething ring to his mouth. She is unfazed by Harry's rushed entrance.

"Don't worry about us, Mister Potter," the old woman says over Teddy's screams, her face grim but sincere. She's obviously still affected by the war herself, so unsurprised as she is that there's some sort of emergency. Everyone is way too accustomed to emergencies. Harry places a quick kiss on the baby's forehead, running a hand through the soft thin wisps of hair on his head in an effort to soothe. Teddy hiccups, eyes focused on Harry's hand as he begins to calm, the ring in his mouth probably helping more than anything Harry can do. Ushering him back to the fireplace, Andromeda makes sure to say, "You be a safe lad now. Off you go."

With a nod, Harry forgoes the floo and pops straight to the front gates of Hogwarts. Seeing no one out in the newly constructed courtyard, he passes through the wards without issue and then breaks out into a run for the hospital wing, wand clutched tightly in hand, heart pounding as hard as his feet against the cobble stones. Through the main doors, he takes off down the hallway, hoping and pleading inside that he makes it before the Aurors. Surely they had legal hurdles to jump over before they could make an arrest? Paperwork, chain of command issues, something that might make sure that Harry arrives first? If he'd just agreed to train with them he'd know these sorts of things, but it's a moot point now. Somehow the fact that his old potions professor is alive and well after he'd seen him die hasn't registered yet, even as he races to see the man. He hopes he's not as injured as he fears, as Hermione's quick explanation led him to believe. If he isn't in any condition to go to prison, then wouldn't they allow him a room at St. Mungo's? It isn't easy to imagine the dozens of possible scenarios that might take place, none of them good for Professor Snape. How is he even alive? Harry saw him die. He died right in front of him, blood on Harry's hands as the light faded from Snape's eyes. The resurrection stone comes immediately to mind. Had someone found the thing somehow out of the entire forest where Harry dropped it? Surely not? Even if they had, the stone doesn't bring people back to life. It only showed the shadow of the person and not even for very long. Harry remembers that night, remembers the despair and fear and dread that surged him ever forward into that forest, hands clutching the stone, wanting nothing more than to see his loved ones before it all ended. Like that, just like that, they'd all appeared. His mum and dad, Sirius, Remus. And Snape, who'd stood apart from the others, a tall, intimidating figure cloaked in mist, looking for all intents awkward and uncertain of his place there.

"_I'm so sorry, Professor_," Harry vaguely remembers crying out.

And then Snape's quiet reply: "_I'd been preparing to meet a similar fate for years now, Potter. Don't trouble yourself_."

Snape hadn't looked angry or disappointed. Only worn out and drained. And now as Harry's running ever closer to the hospital wing, he wonders how he could have seen Snape with the stone if he'd been alive all this time. The man had seemed so satisfied to be dead, so it doesn't make sense that he would try returning to the world like Voldemort did. Never mind. It doesn't matter how he's come back, and anyway Hermione will figure it out if she hasn't already. Mind racing despite Harry's best attempts not to think so hard, he makes it to the familiar hospital wing and barrels into the door in his haste to see Snape in the flesh, to see that he's safe and alive with his own two eyes. But the sight that greets him is not Snape. No, there's no sign of the potions master anywhere. The only people in the room at all, in fact, are Professor Flitwick and Hermione, who both look like they've just come back from the final battle. Professor Flitwick's even in one of the beds, looking disgruntled and extremely put out, with his right arm lying motionless beside him on the bed. Sweat beads on the half-goblin's forehead and he looks pale. Hermione stands a few feet away, wand hand down at her side. She looks tense, hair matted and stuck against her face, and her eyes flicker with relief as soon as the door shuts with a bang behind Harry.

He's at her side in a second. The lone occupants of the room put a lump in his throat. He's too late, isn't he? The Aurors have already taken his teacher without care for the truth of the man's heroism; they've already swept through with their typical brute force and Snape's probably in a cell even as they speak. It feels like his heart has stopped when he mutters a terse, "Where's Snape?"

Hermione's mouth opens, but it's Flitwick's derisive snort from the bed that has Harry's head turning and his shoulders tensing, wand clutched in a white-knuckled fist. The charms professor might not look capable of putting up much of a fight, but he's sure to know more charms than Harry, sure to know more in general, and if there's anything Harry has learned with Hermione for a best friend it's that with knowledge comes power. In no mood to practice being patient, Harry's voice comes out with a rough edge to it when he addresses the bedridden professor, desperate to figure out what's happened as he demands to know what's so funny.

"Oh I'm not sure, Mister Potter." Flitwick grumbles. "Perhaps Miss Granger's naïve assumption that your celebrity status will be enough to keep that menace free?"

Hermione exasperated released breath says it all.

"It won't, you know," the professor adds. "Not even Harry Potter can perform miracles."

"He killed Voldemort, didn't he?" Hermione snaps, causing Harry's anger and impatience to give way momentarily to shock, eyes widening behind his glasses at the woman his friend has become. Professor Flitwick doesn't seem to have a retort for that and quiets with a _harrumph_, going so far as to turn his head away from the both of them and start staring at the empty beds lined beside his. Just as well, really. Hermione leads Harry by the arm further away from the man's bed, stopping once they're a respectable distance away, and then immediately starts to clear up all the gaps in Harry's awareness of this strange and abnormal situation. But when it starts off with an explanation of why Flitwick's injured, sounding as detailed and as lecture-mode as her countless attempts to help Ron and him with homework over the years, Harry shakes his head.

"Mione," he interrupts, voice strained. "Where's Professor Snape?"

"Oh, of course!" Hermione nods toward one of the private room doors. "He's in there with Madam Pomfrey. The Aurors haven't arrived yet, and honestly I'm not convinced that they're coming at all."

It's a longer story than he expected, starting with how Professor Flitwick found Snape trying to escape from the fury of the Whomping Willow. Each new piece of information here quite frankly fails to add up in Harry's mind, but he lets her keep going and manages to contain his questions because he's hoping she'll have answered them all by the time she finishes anyway. Like why was Professor Snape struggling to escape from that bloody tree? Snape knew how to immobilize the thing. Then when Hermione states that Snape broke Flitwick's arm when the man grabbed him, the puzzle becomes even less clear. Professor Snape lashing out with a physical attack rather than a magical one? Allowing the much shorter half-goblin to grab ahold of him in the first place? Confused, Harry listens as Hermione's voice becomes sharper when she talks about how Flitwick had to petrify Snape just to get him to the hospital wing, and then how Madam Pomfrey figured it might be better to heal what injuries of his she could before reversing the spell. None of this sounds like the Professor Snape from Harry's memories. Granted, he never had the chance to properly get to know the older man, but surely he knew enough to recognize that nothing Hermione was saying matched up in any way, shape, or form with the intimidating figure of the world's youngest potions master. The thought that maybe Snape's worse off than previously assumed fills him then. Alarmed, Harry finds that he can't wait for the end of what she's saying before he blurts, "What's wrong with him?"

Hermione shifts, eyes darting to the door behind which houses Snape. "Harry..."

"Just say it, Hermione." Harry runs a tired hand through his hair, briefly assessing whether or not his scar twinges. It doesn't. Voldemort's still dead, at least. "Bloody hell, I thought he was dead a few hours ago. Whatever's wrong with him can't be worse than that. Is it his memories? It has to be. Why else would he have forgotten how to stop the Whomping Willow?"

"It's a little more complicated than –"

"Hermione." When will everyone understand that he can't handle waiting for bad news?

Finally, she sighs. "Harry, Professor Snape is alive, but he's... well, he's a bit younger than he used to be."

Professor Flitwick's loud guffaw rings out from the other side of the hospital wing. Bewildered, looking between his friend and the professor who can't and won't bother hiding his mirth, Harry hesitates. Hermione just looks so reluctant, so uncertain, and it's not something he's prepared to handle without some serious doubts of his own. It's almost as if she's waiting for him to prompt her for more, waiting for him to inquire further before volunteering anymore information. And okay, that's not like her at all! When has she ever hesitated to deliver news? Even when they all thought he had to die in order for Voldemort to die... even then, she'd been forthright. What is wrong with Snape that has her so concerned? But she's still giving him that expectant look, so Harry caves, needing the answer more than he needs to wait for her to offer it up. "Okay... well how much younger is he then?"

"He's a child."

"What?"

"Quite young, possibly five or six years old."

"What?!"

And there it is. The missing puzzle piece that ties all of his questions together and clears up this whole thing. Professor Snape has come back to life as a child? Is he supposed to believe that this isn't some sort of cruel prank? He's been trying to clear the man's name for months now, quite publically in fact, so it stands to reason that if Ginny and Ron are right about everyone thinking he's deserted them... maybe somebody's mad enough about it to strike Harry in the only place he's still vulnerable. Professor Snape has been the only cause he's taken an active interest and role in since the war ended, after all, so everyone must know that it's the only thing he'd come out of hiding for. It doesn't make sense that Hermione would play a part in this, but then again maybe she's being tricked too. Maybe someone polyjuiced into a child who looks enough like Professor Snape to convince Hermione. Harry just does not get it, though. That would be the dumbest plan, considering the fact that polyjuice needs to be taken every hour, not to mention that it'd be discovered by Madam Pomfrey almost immediately. Or is that why the child had needed to be petrified to get him to the hospital wing?

Merlin, Harry's head aches.

"Is this some sort of joke?" he asks Hermione.

He's met with a firm head shake. "Madam Pomfrey confirmed it as soon as he got here."

"How?"

Apparently sensing Harry's desperate need for proof, for anything at all that would make this real in his mind, Hermione jumps into a detailed account of the child's injuries and medical history. Harry listens with a lump in his throat, stomach rolling the whole time, because this child who so resembles his late professor arrived here with injuries that could not have come from a violent tree. Not unless violent trees leave belt buckle indentations along his back or muggle cigarette burns along his shoulders. And if the Whomping Willow could not have inflicted those wounds, then it only stands to reason that the majority of the other ones came from another source as well. The child's left kidney had been ruptured, dark purple bruises marring his back, both kneecaps dislocated, various scratches and scrapes... Hermione kept wincing at every addition to the list. And Harry... Harry's so busy trying to keep his magic in check that he can hardly see straight. Who hurts a child to that extent? To any extent? Who possesses that much evil that they can torture a defenseless innocent? Harry's hand shakes around his wand, fine trembles that translate into his surroundings, causing potions that line shelves along the wall to knock into each other as they vibrate. Having seen this before, Hermione lays a hand on Harry's arm, squeezing.

"You have to calm down," she murmurs, voice soft and concerned.

He knows that. His magic getting out of control will only makes things worse.

That knowledge doesn't help.

"Hermione, how –" He breaks the question off. Swallows. "You're sure it's Professor Snape?"

"Madam Pomfrey still had Professor Snape's medical history."

"And the –" He'd known that Snape's childhood hadn't looked pretty, but this? "– this kid's injuries match up with Professor Snape's history?"

"There are scars, too." Hermione says this very quietly.

"Bloody hell."

He doesn't ask what kind of scars. He doesn't need to know. Already it feels like he's violated Professor Snape's privacy by knowing everything else. Whether he's about to explode or vomit or maybe both, his body isn't sure, but he definitely feels nauseated and light headed. This isn't something he ever wanted to know about the person that saved them all. And Professor Snape definitely wouldn't have wanted anyone to know about this. Heck, Harry hates how much the Weasleys know about his life at the Dursleys, and that can't even compare to what Snape must have survived. Harry suddenly feels very lucky to have been locked in a cupboard, and how is that for messed up? Somehow, learning about this child's injuries has completely changed his mind – instead of suspicious, instead of all the questions as to how this could have happened, Harry can feel only determined to help. If Professor Snape's medical records match up with all the marks on this child, then fine. He'll just have to accept it. Professor Snape led a worse life than Harry had thought with absolutely no one around to make it any better. But he's back. It isn't going to turn out the same. No matter the traumas of Snape's past, the fact of the matter is that right now, for whatever reason, he's come back from the dead as a child. And now Harry can do whatever it takes to right every wrong done to him.

Now Harry just needs to figure out how. Mind whirling at everything standing in between him and his absolute need to do that, he tries to start at the obvious issue. "Why don't you think the Aurors are coming after all? Is it because Snape's... a child now, and they can't arrest someone so young?"

At this, Hermione's eyes spark with a familiar flare of anger. Her hand on his arm tightens, and then she tells him another story that threatens to destroy all control he might have over the magic that surges inside him. Hermione had been helping Madam Pomfrey by restocking the hospital wing with restorative and basic nutrient draughts when Professor Flitwick stormed in with the young Snape floating motionless behind him. And of course nothing can go Professor Snape's way, because no sooner had they arrived that Ron came ranting and raving about an argument he'd gotten into with Harry. Hermione hadn't listened to the beginnings of the rant because the hotheaded redhead had caught sight of the battered, immobile form of the child. He'd been so sympathetic at first, too. Shaking her head, fury darkening her features, Hermione kept her voice level when she said that as soon as Professor Flitwick announced to the room at large that the child had stated that his name was Severus Snape, and as soon as Madam Pomfrey confirmed that shocking statement, he'd gone running to tell his trainers in the Auror department before anyone could put a stop to it.

"He's never been on board with forgiving Professor Snape."

Harry can't even believe this. "Professor Snape doesn't need forgiving! He was working for Voldemort as a spy! He only ever treated us like shite to keep up appearances; he was working for Dumbledore and following his orders just like all of us, even when he killed him! Without him, we'd all probably be dead right now!"

"Harry, I know that." Hermione sighs. "Ronald, however..."

"He's a bloody idiot," is Harry's fierce response.

"Yes, well, I know that too." Hermione doesn't look anymore willing to forgive Ron than Harry feels at the moment. Sure, Ron has his opinions and they happen to differ from Harry's, and sure they might have argued today. But how does that lead to Ron wanting to turn a mere child in to an angry mob of people who've been chomping at the bit to punish every known death eater for an entire war? In that moment, his views of Ron Weasley alter. It's like his eyes have opened to something ugly and mean lurking inside of his long time best friend, and it's not something that Harry wants to be around. It's definitely not something he wants his godson around. Harry has forgiven Ron for a lot of things in the past. He's not sure he can do it this time.

"I firecalled George before I firecalled you," Hermione adds then with a casual smile.

It takes only seconds to connect the dots. "George stopped Ron from blabbing?"

"It's possible. I feel like the Aurors would have been here by now otherwise."

"Merlin, Mione, you're incredible!" Harry could kiss her for that. He switches the impulse to do so and hugs her instead, letting out a relieved breath into her bushy hair. She pats him on the back, grinning herself, and it's like a weight's been lifted from his shoulders because one of the biggest hurdles has hopefully been neutralized. Asking who all knows about Snape's return, it comes as a relief when Hermione lists only the people Harry already knew about: Ron, George, Professor Flitwick, Madam Pomfrey, Hermione, and him. Honestly, Ron and Professor Flitwick are the only ones who know that Harry's nervous about, because Flitwick has been acting odd ever since Harry arrived at the hospital wing and because Ron's already tried to give away the man's – well, child's – appearance. Madam Pomfrey has that whole healer oath preventing her from giving out her patient's personal information, and he trusts Hermione and George almost more than he trusts himself. He'd never have thought to involve George, but he's the only one with the power to stop Ron from doing something stupid, especially now that everyone's been treading so carefully around George. Also, it can't be smart to mess with someone who owns a joke shop as successful as Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, especially when that person so happens to have invented most of the jokes.

Right then, the door to the private room clicks open and Madam Pomfrey steps out, face grim and drawn. Spotting Harry, she offers a quick nod before making her way over to Professor Flitwick to check on his arm. The half goblin grumbles the entire time, ranting about the little hellion that caused the injury, spittle flying as he calls the potions master every name in the book. Harry realizes that the past year when Professor Snape acted as headmaster must have been difficult for everyone. He realizes that people still must hold grudges. But Snape wasn't like the Carrows during that time. Even Neville admitted that Snape mostly kept to himself unless he was minimizing the damage done by the real death eaters. So whatever grudge the charms professor still holds against Professor Snape for that year is bullocks. To hold such a grudge that it transfers over to an abused little kid? Worse than bullocks. Complete and utter cruelty. So while Madam Pomfrey checks on him, Harry casts a quiet _muffliato_, turns to his friend, and says, "We should obliviate him."

Hermione's expression is determined. "It shouldn't be too difficult."

That settled, Harry cancels the spell. Madam Pomfrey has finished her check up by that point, so they join her near Professor Flitwick's bed and Hermione asks a quiet, "Madam, have you found out anything else?"

She fidgets with her apron, concern radiating from within. "I've already disclosed more than is appropriate, I'm afraid. That boy has been traumatized. He's too young to offer consent to tell anyone else about the particulars of his condition. At this point, I can only speak with the boy's guardians."

"You know he doesn't have any," Hermione points out.

But the witch is stubborn. "Nevertheless."

"Please," Harry says. "Is Snape going to be okay?"

The woman must sense his anxiety because she sets a hand onto his shoulder and offers a quick, reassuring pat, but still she insists that they figure out who will act as his guardian before she can speak about it. Professor Flitwick mutters from his bed that if they're not going to hand him over to the Aurors that he's just going to end up in an orphanage or as a ward of the ministry because who's going to want to take in a kid who used to be a death eater and killed the great Albus Dumbledore? Obviously Flitwick has no idea who he's asking, because Harry immediately steps forward. "I'd want to take him in, Professor."

"You're still a child yourself, Mister Potter."

"I'm seventeen, an adult in the eyes of the ministry." Now that the idea has been planted, of course, it's not going to go away. Grimmauld Place is more than large enough for another occupant. Hermione obviously sees it as well, because she's got that gleam in her eye, like the one she got whenever she found a cause to pursue. He remembers it well from her S.P.E.W. days. The problem that remains, however, is figuring out how to become the legal guardian despite the fact that they can't let anyone know that Snape is alive. Even if they give him a different name or disguise him to look like a different child, a random parentless child who cannot tell the truth about where he comes from will look suspicious. Hermione and he are immediately swept into a discussion of possible cover stories, possible ways in which he can become Snape's legal guardian, and Madam Pomfrey listens, her mouth pinched into a deep frown. None of this will help Harry to become Snape's guardian as quickly as he needs to, however. There's a little boy in the next room who's probably confused and who needs a guardian pretty much yesterday. He can't remain in the hospital wing until all the legalities situate themselves. He needs help _now_.

"Mister Potter, are you truly serious about becoming the boy's legal guardian?"

Harry doesn't hesitate to answer the healer's question. "Yes."

She nods once. "This situation is very delicate. He will require a lot of attention and care. It is obvious to us all that he has been badly abused over an extended period of time. Earning his trust will not be easy. It will take time. Knowing that, are you still willing?"

"More than, Madam Pomfrey." Harry can't imagine leaving now.

She nods again, humming thoughtfully and staring at him. Harry decidedly refuses to squirm under the close scrutiny. Ever since he saw Professor Snape's memories, ever since he watched the man die on the dirty floor of the shrieking shack, he's wished it could have ended better for him. Harry's determined to take this miracle of an opportunity and roll with it, determined to change things. He's not confident that he'll know what he's doing for the most part, but how could he not try his best? He knows for a fact that he'll make a better guardian for Snape than anyone else in the wizarding world who still believes in the man's guilt, and there's literally no chance that Harry will let Snape end up in an _orphanage_. Madam Pomfrey finally agrees with the idea of Harry acting as the child's guardian, motioning with her head for him to follow behind her. With a knowing glance toward Hermione, who gives him a barely perceptible nod back as she stands beside Professor Flitwick's bed, Harry follows Madam Pomfrey to another room connected to the hospital wing. Entering, this one turns out to be an office, filled with bookshelves and potions. He recognizes some of them, mind blanching when he spots rows along the back wall of skele-gro. Now that he thinks about it, none of his memories from the hospital wing are good ones, are they?

Closing the door behind them, Madam Pomfrey gestures for him to take a seat.

Anxious, Harry fidgets, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Will he be okay?"

She takes a seat on the opposite side of the desk, sighing. "I assume that Miss Granger informed you of his injuries?" At his nod, she continues, "I've managed to heal his kidney and reposition both kneecaps, though I'm sure they'll be tender for a few weeks while they adjust to the move. A salve needs to be applied to his back and thighs twice a day for at least the next week to heal the welts. Overall, I'd say that all the internal damage has been fixed, but there's substantial scarring I'm worried about. Also, he's severely malnourished. Though he looks much younger, he's actually eight years old physically. After healing as much as I could, I cancelled Professor Flitwick's spell, the one that petrified him, and he managed to tell me that he's eight, that he's unaware of how he came to be under the Whomping Willow, and that he doesn't recall how he came to be in the hospital wing. He asked about his father, Mister Potter."

"What about him?"

Madam Pomfrey clears her throat, looking uncomfortable. "He asked if his father had given him away. Apparently, in his mind, his mother has recently passed away and he's been living with his muggle father. I'm not sure how Severus Snape has ended up where he is – but it's as if he has come forward in time thirty years! To him, the past thirty years haven't happened yet. For all intents and purposes, he is an eight year old boy whose last memory is of being with his father at Spinner's End. He's convinced that his father has sold him away. I've told him that is not the case, but in his mind it is the only reason he would not be returning to his father."

Harry swallows hard, fighting the urge to be sick. His stomach twists into knots at every word she speaks, until at last he's panicking in his mind, wondering if he'll be able to do this. What happens if he can't help Snape? What happens when he messes up and makes things worse? It paints a vivid picture of the boy's memories, for his first thought upon waking in unfamiliar surroundings to be that his father's gone and sold him. Harry's still just a kid himself. Sure, he takes care of Teddy sometimes, but he's just a baby with no real traumas to get over. He's not even Teddy's primary guardian, and it's a comfort to know that if he has questions or issues, Andromeda is there to help. What does Harry know about how to help an eight year old overcome a shoddy childhood? He's going to fail at this. There's only a nine year age gap between them! He'll fail and the only person who'll suffer for it will be Snape. He deserves someone who knows how to parent, someone better than Harry. Oh, Merlin, but who? There aren't any other options, are there? The only person an eight-year-old Snape has right now is Harry. If not him then what, an orphanage? The fact of the matter is that until he can clear Snape's name and convince the world to accept the man, his younger self won't be safe in the wizarding world. And Harry can't picture the man growing up in the muggle world.

Either way, he can't keep panicking. Because right now, he's all Snape has.

Anxious, Harry says that he wants to take Snape home as soon as possible, wanting to return to the security and safety of Grimmauld Place where people can't reach them. He has to change the wards to keep out Ron, because there's no way he trusts the redhead to be civil around a young, vulnerable version of his once hated potions professor. And Snape should be able to feel safe there. After all, it's going to be his home now too. Oh, Merlin. A child who's already had such traumas, and the only place safe for him now is the grim old house that constantly yells insults. He'll have to make room for Severus on the first floor, as it's still the only area of the house that's been made safe for children. There's been mysterious thumping sounds coming from the third floor lately, too, and he's pretty sure another boggart must have taken up residence there. How the bloody hell can Harry make any child feel safe living in Grimmauld Place?

Well, one mental crisis at a time.

First off, he's got to listen closely to Madam Pomfrey's instructions and try not to freak out when the thought strikes him again, the thought that he's headed straight on his way to becoming not just the parent of an abused eight-year-old kid, but the parent of his late potions professor, who surely must be going batty in the other room as they speak. Look at the positives, Harry. Snape's alive now. Harry can make amends for the way he treated him in the last year of his life. Madam Pomfrey is convinced that whatever has caused his appearance here today isn't causing him any physical damage and that he's not going to suddenly return to his original age. It's more like a time issue than a Severus Snape issue. He's simply jumped forward in time. So yeah, positives. He's alive, safe, and he's giving Harry the chance he's been wanting for the past six months, to right the wrongs done to the man who'd helped stop the war. Hermione's on their side, too, which always ranks right up there in the positives department. She'll figure out how Harry can become Snape's legal guardian and thereby prevent anyone from interfering or acting against Snape's best interests. With her on their side, everything's sure to work out. And hey, now Teddy has someone to play with, someone younger than Harry. Yes, there's no need to panic, no reason behind his wildly beating heart and sweaty palms. They'll be just fine. So what if he's too young to become a parent? He was too young to have the power capable of defeating a dark lord, and that turned out all right.

_You can do this, Harry_, he thinks to himself. _It can't be that hard._

_Right?_


	4. So it Begins

**Warnings** for angst, mentions of child abuse, and a switch in point of views.

Healing Hands

4: So it Begins

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Across the hospital wing, locked inside a small square room, Severus Snape fights the urge to fall asleep on his feet. The woman from before had originally placed him on the lone bed in the room, but he'd been unaware at the time, frozen and unable to voice a single syllable in protest. And afterward, when she'd finally allowed him the dignity of movement, it hadn't seemed polite to remove himself from the furniture in her presence, what with all the indecorous jumping that had to occur in order for him to reach the ground. His shirt had even ridden up, revealing the mass of marks that she'd already pawed at and seen for far too long, honestly. Throwing an almost accusatory glance at the over large bed beside him, Severus catches sight of a wrinkle in the sheets and hurries to correct the slight, eyes darting to the door to make sure nobody sees him doing it. Despite the healer's inappropriate lack of personal space, those potions she'd shoved down his throat had worked sheer miracles, the salve still soothing away most of his aches, and he doesn't want to provoke anyone into ruining how good they'd made him feel. As soon as his hand smoothes the wrinkle out, he returns to a respectable stand, hands by his sides, head up, chin raised, eyes locked on the only door in sight. Someone's bound to return to this room, for whatever reason, and he's determined not to call any negative attention to himself.

But the longer that door remains shut, the heavier Severus' eyelids become.

To distract himself, he starts to think about what this day might mean for him, what the always questionable future might hold now that he's apparently never returning to his father's tender mercies again. It's a strange thought, only unpleasant because he knew what to expect with his father, whereas this place remains a mystery. The rules, the punishments, no one has told him what he has to do in return for the healing that woman had foisted upon him, and all in all the uncertainties don't seem worth the trouble of leaving the man who sired him. He much prefers familiar evils rather than whatever unknown horror lurks beyond that door. That healer's face had seemed open and kind when she'd informed him that his father hadn't sold him, but how exactly can she expect to be believed when she tells such tall tales? He knew his father better than she, and he knew that the man wouldn't have gotten rid of him unless he'd been given an adequate sum to compensate for the loss of a free servant around the house. It's a sorry state when his own father would gladly sell him to the highest bidder, but it's the only certainty that exists in the situation Severus has stumbled upon. Frowning, scowling as he loses himself in vindictive thoughts, he suddenly hopes with all his might that Tobias Snape had been given vast riches in exchange, both because then his new owner would have been swindled out of money and because his father would have enough to afford to poison himself to death in alcohol. It would serve both parties in the exchange right.

Of course, knowing him, he'd been sold for a box of cracker jacks and a can of flat cola.

This explanation doesn't account for his strange lapse in memory, however, so maybe he's off the mark entirely. His father selling him doesn't account for the fact that he woke up underneath some death trap of a tree whose branches smacked down as soon as he moved into a crouch. He takes comfort in the fact that the tree hadn't only targeted him but also the short stubby man who had found him there, the mean-spirited man who'd heard his name and then immediately struck him across the face. Good Lord, what if that's the man to whom he'd been sold? And there he'd been, so confused that he'd actually struck _back_. What sort of punishment must surely await an act like that? Severus had only ever struck back once, mere weeks before his mother's passing when he'd been so caught up in grief that he hadn't been able to control himself. The result of that indiscretion had lasted so long that he'd been walloped over and over again for being unable to complete his duties. Swallowing at the thought, mouth suddenly dry, Severus allows his eyes to dart around the cramped quarters and bare walls, hands fisting at his sides.

It doesn't matter. There's nothing he can do about it now.

Now of course, he's distracted enough not to fall asleep, but there's an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach, something he refuses to call fear making his heart thump madly against his rib cage. He cannot wait to grow up. This won't happen when he's older. He'll have no reason for fear when he finally becomes the adult and can live on his own, take care of himself. It's a cool comfort but the only one his frantic mind can latch onto at the moment, and he takes several calming breaths at the idea, repeating it to himself like a warm blanket around his soul. None of this will matter when he's large enough to defend himself. Everyone ages, time moves ever forward, and Severus Snape will one day turn the tables and find himself on the other side, the one where people will fear _him_. He only has to make it another decade at most, and then every weaker, elderly adult who'd once struck him would know how they'd forced him to feel every day of his life. He refuses to lose himself before he can make that happen, refuses to accept this ghastly lot in life without promising himself to rise above it as soon as the chance arises, to rise above them all by proving himself worth more than this.

It'll be a hard sell, even to himself sometimes. In the worst moments, he finds his worth difficult to grasp, almost like fog above the early morning river bank, intangible and waved easily aside by nearly every person – adult and child alike – he'd ever met. But then Severus can still feel his mother's cool hand sliding through his hair. He can hear her murmured apologies, her voice like the salve soothed into his back, cooling the burn. She'd hardly ever been sober enough for it, of course. Half the time, he couldn't have been sure she would remember him in the mornings. But perhaps its rarity helped make the memory of her embraces all the clearer now that she's gone.

He's still scouring his mind for every flash of a good feeling, for every scrap of memory where Eileen Snape had sat with him out on their broken porch, telling him stories of another world in which magic saturated the very air, when the door suddenly creaks and a head pokes inside, an adult he doesn't recognize. The man's head enters first, wide eyes behind round glasses falling on Severus, searching. Severus holds his breath, standing very still. A sharp pain in the palms of his hands alerts him to the fact that his fists are still clenched, nails too long, and he slowly releases them.

_So it begins_.

At least this isn't the man whose arm he'd snapped back. No, this man is much taller, and he enters the room fully with easy, confident steps, wearing clothes Severus can recognize instead of the strange robes the short man had been wearing. Nerves run amuck in his belly, butterflies as his mother would say, as he tries not to let the man's scrutiny affect him. Eyes averted to his scuffed sneakers, Severus misses the way the man's face falls, misses the way he swallows his uncertainty down and forces a smile.

"Hullo," the man says after a beat, standing by the closed door. "My name's Harry."

"Sir." Severus glances up at him, nodding politely.

The man's stare unnerves Severus, but he's proud of himself for not fidgeting or letting his fists close once more. He's as dignified as a Snape should be in public, confident that despite the fact that his tattered old shirt hangs off one of his shoulders, too large in comparison to his skeletal frame, and despite his worn sneakers and mismatched gray dress slacks, he can't have given this stranger a better first impression. And as odd as it is, this adult is not yet angry, his face as open as the nurse's was. The bitter old midget from earlier must not have mentioned Severus' frantic loss of control, then, and Severus himself refuses to bring it up unless asked outright. Still, his heart won't stop pattering noisily in his chest, palms itching, because he still doesn't know the rules or what this adult will require of him. Harry makes no move to approach him as he begins to speak, voice soft and light as he tells Severus that it's good to meet him but that he's been cleared by the nurse to leave the hospital wing and that they need to leave. There's a sense of urgency in the man's tone that Severus isn't sure he understands, because why would there be such a rush to take Severus to his home? Possible reasons for the rushed departure flash through his mind, each one more horrifying than the last, but what choice is there? He either goes with the man who'd purchased him or remains here, and the fact that the healer cleared him to leave means that she definitely doesn't want him here.

Harry must see some of his anxiety despite his best attempts to keep it hidden, because before Severus can agree to leave or even wrap his head around the fact that this is actually happening, the adult has crouched down to his level, still near the door, and is asking Severus to look up at him. Face as blank as he can keep it, Severus raises his eyes from staring intently at a particular dirt smudge on his sneakers and meets the man's eyes.

"I'm going to keep you safe," the man says, words slow and careful.

Severus swallows. Harry looks very determined, crouching with his elbows on his knees, green eyes bright and earnest behind the glare of his glasses perched at a slant on his nose. Now that he has this chance to look, the man doesn't appear that old, not nearly as old as Tobias Snape. He's not as intimidating as a result, and his words sound nice. Genuine. Severus feels almost instantly disgusted with himself for thinking that, nose scrunching in distaste. He's well accustomed to following his instincts. It's what has kept him alive for this long. But something about those heavy words, spoken like a solemn vow, so sudden in the absence of all that he's ever known, has led Severus astray. He can't trust what his instincts are saying, can't put any stock at all in a simple promise from someone who buys children from drunkards. He opens his mouth, about to blurt out that the man needn't bother with the deceit, but chokes it back down at the last second. If this Harry believes that he needs to play nice in order to get Severus to go with him, then why correct the assumption? Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

Of course, Severus still has no idea what to say to such a ridiculous claim.

He remains quiet and, when the silence stretches, looks back down at his feet.

A soft sigh, and then: "Severus, what do you know about magic?"

Startled at the use of his first name, no hint of derision in the tone and not spat out at him like a curse, Severus straightens his shoulders, chin rising all over again. It's an open question with an array of possible answers, but he knows the only one that matters here. His voice comes out a little hoarse from disuse but certain when he looks the crouching adult in the eye and states, "I know I'm a wizard."

It's the only point of pride Severus has. No matter what his father thinks about magic or what he does to try and repress it in his son, Severus knows that he's a wizard. His mother often used to tell him stories of what magic can do, including how it could be used for defense and to heal all types of injuries. Potions that can mend bones and repair torn ligaments, spells used to disarm aggressors and erect shields, such incredible feats that Severus could have put to use over the years. Though he no longer remembers it himself, his mother told him about a bit of accidental magic that assured her that Severus was definitely a wizard. A few days after his first birthday, Eileen had been jostled awake by an enraged Tobias screaming and raving, saying her son had disappeared with a loud pop right before his eyes. She'd found him hours later under the porch, lying on his stomach in the dirt and breathing softly in sleep. He's tried to call upon that magic purposefully in the years since, but he's never been able to do much more than float blades of grass or make the pages in books turn by themselves. Hardly the most useful of tricks. But it's normal. Eileen told him about wands, assured him that he would get one when he turned eleven just like every other wizard. Now that she's dead and he's in the hands of this stranger, however, Severus somehow doubts it'll happen.

Shaking himself from the memories, he watches as the adult in front of him grins at his response, nodding as if he were genuinely happy to know that Severus is a wizard. It sets his teeth on edge, the idea of what this man could do with his magic without his consent, until Harry lets him know without missing a beat, "That's good. I'm a wizard, too."

Well, obviously. He'd just had potions shoved down his throat, magical salve rubbed into his back and legs, a tree try to flatten him with its spidery branches, and a disgruntled short man point a stick at him and petrify him into immobility. Of course this man is a wizard, and of course he's now in the wizarding world. He must be concussed not to have put all these pieces together beforehand, and the sharp bite of relief almost has Severus breaking his stance. He's with wizards. Surely that has to be better than remaining with people like his father, and even if it's not... there must be books somewhere that he could get his hands on. Whatever happens, surely this is an opportunity to learn and grow as a wizard. Harry fidgets when Severus does nothing more than stare at him, standing up and stretching out his back, muttering about how they'll be using magic to travel to something called Grimmauld Place, which sounds possibly less pleasant than even Spinner's End. But Severus follows obediently behind the man, not moving to take the hand that Harry holds out to him and ignoring the way the man sighs. He might look small, but honestly, he's not dunderheaded enough to need anybody's hand. He remains close to the back of the man's legs as they walk through the inner sanctum of the hospital wing, however, suddenly nervous about the other people they might encounter and trying hard to keep up. His knees feel shaky and sore, but at least it isn't the same searing pain from before and it's not unbearable. And then, of course, he catches sight of that mean man who'd petrified him, asleep on one of the beds, and Severus glares toward that bed even as he presses even closer to the man's legs. He's so close that the adult's hand grazes his shoulder accidentally on one of his arm's backward pendulum motions. Obviously noticing the sudden contact, Harry stops mid-step, causing Severus to collide with him. Heart pounding, he immediately jumps backward, the action jostling his knees that still ache, which send him tumbling to the floor. Vision blurred through the pain, his back and legs exploding when they hit the floor, Severus bites his lip hard to muffle all sound, embarrassed and deeply shamed when a gasp still manages to escape.

"Woah!" Lightning fast, Harry whirls around and drops to his knees, asking where it hurts even as his hands reach out to pull Severus up. Seeing only hands coming toward him, already with his eyes stinging with unshed tears, Severus yelps and flinches back, trying to shuffle away, his legs scraping against the cotton of his slacks. The pain is intense, so bad that the next few minutes go by without him being aware of time passing at all. He's lost in every burn and ache, so familiar after so many years that it's strange that it can still take his breath away. There's an icky smell pressed under his nose, a vial pressed to his lips, and then fingers massage his throat until he swallows a thick syrupy liquid that doesn't want to stay down. Gagging, Severus tries not to pass out but he can feel the pull of it pressing against his temples, his vision darkening around the corners. Then there's an arm under his head, cushioning it from the floor, and those fingers keep massaging his throat, gentle and coaxing like Mum, but he can't smell her perfume or the alcohol that's always on her breath and he's not sure why she keeps forcing fuzzy gross sock flavor down his throat. Finally the vial is taken away, and there's a hand sliding through dirty hair, a slow caress that can't be anybody but Mum.

"Mum," mumbling, he turns into the hand, pressing his head into the touch.

Her voice sounds strange, deeper than memory. "Shh, you'll be okay. I've got you. Shh."

She must be sober right now. Severus' eyes clench shut, squeezing out stray tears, hands reaching up to clutch blindly at her shirt, biting his lip until the iron tang of blood coats his tongue. Mum's hand rubs down his face, then, cool against his pallid skin, soothing his jaw muscles until he stops biting through his bottom lip, soft whispers repeating to him that everything's going to be okay. There's a roaring in Severus' ears and he can hear his own heartbeat, a loud drumming in his head, but then the pain recedes like magic, and the burn dissipates, swept away by a cool, cool chill that starts in his chest and travels down. It's a weightless bliss he's never felt before, suddenly pain free and with his mum murmuring comforting, confident promises and assurances above him, her cool hand a calming weight against his forehead. Exhausted even before the tidal wave of pain and panic, it takes mere minutes until Severus' head lolls into the crook of Harry's arm and he drops into sleep.

All the while, Harry keeps murmuring, hand running through his greasy hair, blinking away tears of his own and glad the child's too out of it to see them. "It's gonna be okay, Severus. You're gonna be okay. I've got you. Shh."


End file.
